


Rough Patch

by strawberriesandtophats



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Baking, Domestic Fluff, Gen, Poverty, Slice of Life, Washing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-01-07 09:31:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12230172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriesandtophats/pseuds/strawberriesandtophats
Summary: Keeping the triplets away from Scrooge for ten whole years meant steering clear of a thousand things. It took dedication. And he’d always had a talent for surviving, even in the most hopeless situations.





	1. Chapter 1

Keeping the triplets away from Scrooge for ten whole years meant steering clear of a thousand things. It took dedication. And he’d always had a talent for surviving, even in the most hopeless situations.

Scrooge may have owned Duckburg, but he did not own the sea. So instead of renting a tiny apartment or somehow miraculously acquiring a house, Donald had found a houseboat that was big enough for the four of them and bought it. When the kids had been young, the boat had seemed far larger than it had when they ran around playing elaborate war-games and did their homework at the little kitchen table.

Donald had sold all of his adventuring gear, one item at a time. When times were hard and he’d lost yet another job that had looked like a dream come true just yesterday before he’d made a bad impression on the supervisor or managed to somehow start a fire in the staff room it was the only way to make sure that there was food on the table.

He’d sold his diving equipment, sturdy hiking boots and a parka that could be worn on the North Pole. He’d sold everything but the houseboat, which he’d gotten for cheap in the first place and his huge first-aid kit. With three ducklings and his own bad luck, Donald made sure to re-stock it every few months and count his blessings that his life had taught him to always keep a bag of cold peas in the fridge just in case.

The boys thought that what had been left of his adventuring equipment was from some sort of a weird garage sale, or rejects from Gladstone’s endless prizes. And Donald was just fine with that.

He’d sold the pricy stuff when they had been very young anyway.

Donald didn’t miss his former life. Trading it in for raising the boys was more than fair.

They didn’t have to know the details about how to stuff a ceramic pig full of change and single dollars and call it a college fund for three kids. Or the jars of copper and silver coins hidden away in nooks and crannies of the boat, labelled with the amount they held and stowed away for when all the money would inevitably be gone.

They knew about the nights studying accounting at an online college, about the DIY videos he watched when he needed to fix things around the boat and his troubles finding a job. That was enough.

Everything else could be downplayed and joked about.

And Donald was good at keeping secrets.

In truth, the boys barely noticed things going missing if those things didn’t explicitly belong to them.

 

It had been years since Donald had sold the big washing machine. Hand washing everyone’s clothes in the kitchen sink just became a part of life, just like hanging those clothes up on the washing line outside was. Whenever he’d get a lump sum from a rare week-long job, he’d carry the laundry bag after laundry bag to the nearest laundromat and sigh with pleasure at the scent of flowery laundry detergent. But hand washing everything was still the norm.

And so, when he’d woken up in the mansion, his first thought hadn’t been one of relief of not having to make breakfast, possibly ever again. Donald was so used to his routine that he’d just strolled into the boys’ room, picked up the laundry basket and instinctively dodged when darts flew too near his face. Then he’d slipped into the bath and started washing, pleased that he had more room for his soap and washing board. Turning off ten years of auto-pilot when it came to washing three sets of color-coded clothes was easier said than done.

It took a long time for the relief of his new situation to sink in.

He’d thought that coming back to the mansion would be like dragging himself over hot coals. But the scent of furniture polish and the sensation of soft rugs under his feet had just been familiar. Pain faded over time, but it had nonetheless been easier to focus on separating himself from the idea of living in this mansion by staying on his boat even while the triplets enjoyed themselves.

 

It wasn’t until Donald saw green, blue and red shirts fluttering in the breeze on the washing line in the back garden of the mansion a few months after they had all moved in that his breathing became easier. He wandered into the laundry room, breathing in industrial sized boxes of fancy laundry detergent that smelled like fresh breeze and money. He listened to the whirring washing machine and dryer and leaned back.

Donald closed his eyes, trying to hide how they burned.

He’d closed the door behind him, so no one would see him crying about mundane luxuries like a full-sized, stocked fridge and enough room for the boys to run around in without slamming into the walls. Silly things.

He no longer had to remove the bulbs from the lamps so that he wouldn’t be tempted to turn them on. He didn’t have to rely on the school to provide the boys with one hot meal a day or spend his nights sewing the buttons back on his sailor suit.

The door creaked.

Donald could recognize the sound of spat-clad feet on the floor. He knew it so well that he had been able to distinguish it from almost any other sound in the world, which was handy when they’d still been a team.

He didn’t move from his spot. Running away from Scrooge had become an exercise in futility as soon as he’d stepped in the manor.

“My mother always washed our clothes by hand,” Scrooge said. “I spent most of my life doing the same.”

“No washing machines in the Klondike?” Donald asked, swallowing.

Scrooge was silent, moving to stand beside him in front of the washing machine. Scrooge was a patient duck. He’d waited ten years for Donald to come back, perhaps with little hope that he’d ever do so.

“It was a long road from being a shoeshine lad to living in this mansion, lad,” Scrooge said, his voice low. “You can stay as long as you like.”

Donald nodded, keeping his eyes on swirl of colors in the washing machine’s round window. When he felt the warmth of Scrooge’s hand on his shoulder, he leaned towards him.

“Thank you, Uncle Scrooge,” Donald managed.

His feet were rooted to the floor. So he just stood there when Scrooge left the room, humming a soft tune under his breath.

He didn’t have to worry about the water bill or if the electricity would be turned off in the middle of the night. He didn’t have to worry about the boat blowing up, or how losing another job would affect the boy’s social lives.

He didn’t have to worry at all.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Donald had become used to shopping in the middle of the night. He’d kiss the triplets goodnight, glance at their already-packed schoolbags and head out. When times were bad, he’d dig out any spare change from underneath the sofa cushions and crumpled bills from one of the emergency jars. But if times were good, he’d leave the house with his wallet and head to the nearest supermarket with a long list in hand.

The cashiers knew him by name these days.

Donald had filled the cart with stuff that would last, canned beans and tomatoes and peaches. Sacks of flour and oatmeal and rice. Soap and shampoo and enough yarn to make new gloves. Only when he’d crossed out all that on his grocery list could he move on to the good stuff. Fresh vegetables and fruit, sausages and fish and enough coffee to keep him awake for a couple of days, straight if necessary.

It was easier to get the bulk of what they needed at night instead of dragging the kids around in the middle of the day, having to fret over every single can of soda they put into the cart. No. He had a different budget for those trips.

He didn’t need to go shopping at night any longer. The mansion’s kitchen and cupboards were fully stocked and never appeared to run out of food.

These days, he found himself wandering the supermarket’s aisles with a different list in hand. He’d reach for a bar of chocolate he hadn’t eaten in half a decade, or ingredients of a dessert that his mother had made but he’d never had time to make for her grandchildren before moving back into the mansion with Scrooge.

The piece of paper Hortense had handed him so many years ago was yellowed and dusted with sugar. But it was still legible.

He allowed himself to dream.

“A celebration, Donald?” the cashier asked, scanning the butter and the cream. Donald nodded, the lump in his throat too big and his legs too wobbly.

Donald drove back to the mansion with a trunk full of ingredients that felt more like the building blocks of a memory than physical things that could be persuaded to become a cake if you treated them right.

He carried the bags inside and into the mansion’s kitchen instead of into the houseboat in the swimming pool.

How many years had it been since he’d used an electrical mixer that didn’t need to be screwed back together after he’d used it?

How long had it been since he’d had an full-sized oven that didn’t randomly shut down?

Donald dumped all the butter into the standing bowl and fussed with measuring how much flour he’d needed, even if the right amount was seared into his memory. He greased the tin with even more butter and watched as big snowflakes fell outside the window.

The whirr from the standing mixer, even if set on low, filled the kitchen as Donald opened the sack of sugar and cracked the eggs into a separate bowl. The sugar was added and if Donald saw a shadow at the edge of his vision in the hallway, he ignored it.

Most likely Miss Quakfaster, who’d want the recipe for her library. Or Mrs. B, patrolling the mansion in case the Beagle Boys were around.

Heaven help him, it could even be Gyro, here to talk about the chemistry of baking.

Soon the butter had become so fluffy that it should have won awards and he threw in six eggs. Then the flour and the milk joined the mixture, as well as decadent vanilla paste. He’d been staring at a row of those in the baking aisle for five years and now it was on his kitchen counter.

All movements were slow as he poured the batter into the tin and put it into the hot oven.

Donald pulled on bright yellow rubber gloves, fresh from his bag and started washing bowls and measuring cups and spoons when the doorway became dark. The sound of running water had not been enough to conceal the sound of spats on the floor, but Donald had been expecting Scrooge to wander in as soon as he’d returned from the store.

“I thought I recognized that smell,” Scrooge said, leaning on his cane in the hallway. “Thought I was dreaming at first.”

“Want me to poke you to make sure?” Donald asked, reaching for the soap. “It’ll be a while until it’s ready.”

“Did you make it in the night so that the wee ones could have cake for breakfast?” Scrooge asked, eyeing the tin in the oven and the smattering of flour on the counter.

“The only time I had to bake was at night,” Donald said, shrugging as he scrubbed a bowl. “Had a lot of night shifts, or early morning shifts. And they’ve never had this one before.”

“Never?” Scrooge asked, furrowing his brow.

“It’s not a birthday cake, and the pound cake they sell in the grocery store has five times the sugar,” Donald explained. “So, I just…let them choose something else.”

Pound cake didn’t look interesting to kids. They were drawn to chocolate covered muffins and sprinkles and gooey caramel glaze.

“But you kept the recipe?” Scrooge asked, walking over to the counter where the yellowed piece of paper resided among the still-unwashed bowls.

Scrooge lingered at that counter for a long time, holding the piece of paper as if it was one of his precious coins.

The scent of rising batter filled the kitchen. Soon it would waft through the entire mansion.

“No sense in throwing something good away,” Donald said. “And I always meant to bake it for them.”

He’d glanced at the stand mixer for months now, imagining meringues and breads stuffed with fresh herbs and tree-layered cookies.

There was enough oatmeal in the cupboards to make oat biscuits and enough butter to make good pie crust.

Scrooge said nothing, only began stacking the unwashed bowls into the empty dishwasher. Donald washed the bowls and whisks and the spatula in the sink and put them in the rack.

“Well, you’ve got the time now, lad,” Scrooge said, looking around at the clean kitchen. “And the space too.”

Donald nodded, smiling at the sound of the kids rushing down the stairs and whooping excitedly. Scrooge rummaging around in the cupboards for his tea, his back to Donald, but Donald could see the fond expression on his face reflected in the window.


	3. Chapter 3

Donald worked on the boat. Day and night, handing over jars full of change to cashiers at the hardware store for stuff he never thought he’d need.

He watched enough DIY videos to fix the worst of the damage to the boat.

The day that the lights came back on was a victory, even if he still had to shower inside the mansion or at the local swimming pool. Donald replaced the wooden floor and put in new windows. He glued together old picture frames and made his own kitchen cabinets.

He sold the very dregs of his adventuring gear, down to his old thermal shirt and ultra-light sleeping bag. When the boys had been tiny they had made a fort in the living room and taken turns napping inside the bag, claiming to be out in the wilderness. Donald still had the photographs on his phone.

He’d even sold his best fishing pole.

At least the boat still floated, he told himself when he burrowed himself beneath his patched and often mended covers late at night, listening to the faint sounds of the boys running around the mansion. The mansion was full of things they’ve never had: enough space, financial security and adventures.

He knew about their adventures, of course he did. It didn’t matter if Scrooge would refer to them as daytrips or even business trips. He’d raised these boys all his life and they were too delighted by their new life for him to hinder them in enjoying everything Scrooge offered them.

Webby grinned at him every time they met, talking excitedly about playing with the boys. He listened, matching her pace as she waved her hands around and bounced up and down.

Still, everyday he made sure that Scrooge was indeed watching over the kids. He hadn’t lost them yet.

And at night, Donald dreamed of a world where he lived in a two-story house with a proper garden and a spacious kitchen. The boys had their own space. Sometimes there was even a comfy hammock nestling in between two trees in the garden. Even in his dreams he had trouble finding jobs, but even there he always ended up at the bin eventually or following Scrooge around the world on his adventures.

Those nights where the lights were out in the mansion because the boys were away, Donald didn’t sleep. Instead he worked, either hammering things back into place on the boat or working for small accounting firms which had no qualms about someone working from home. Those gigs meant that there was enough money to replace most of the essentials: duvets and towels and silverware. Non-perishable food and a working toilet.

He refilled his jars with bills and coins, hiding them underneath the mattress and the floorboards.

It was better to keep working on the boat just in case, so that they would have a place to go when things would inevitably go wrong. At least that was his reasoning.

They had lived without Scrooge before.

They could do it again if they had to.


	4. Chapter 4

The boat gleamed when the boys dragged themselves inside, all sorrow and rage. Donald doesn’t try to fill the silence with empty chatter. Instead he dug out their old favorite treats from his cupboards and left them on the counter.

They fiddled with battered board games and old toys left around the boat, looking around the place before heading back to their room. They don’t talk much, only muttered to themselves so inaudibly that Donald only heard he insulting ones.

He’d always known they’d find about Della eventually. He’d known as soon as he’d taken them in. But he’d hoped for it to be a quiet conversation between the four of them. Not this. Never this.

Donald fluffed pillows and double checked his locks before climbing up to the roof of the boat. The air was cool, but not enough to sting. Somewhere in the marina, the radio was on, playing an old song about waves and the nature of time.

Above him the stars and the moon shone. It wasn’t the same as when he’d seen it all from Della’s plane or from his tent as the roamed the world, but it was enough. It was the sky the boys knew, the constellations and the light they had learned to recognize as a part of their world.

Eventually, all three joined him, throwing pillows on the roof, somehow managing not to keep them all balanced.

They watched the stars until they were almost frozen to the roof.

Later that night the boys woke him up with swollen eyes and raw voices and carrying their cold pillows and worn quilts. They only fell asleep when the sun moved across the floor, too exhausted to keep their eyes open.

Donald didn’t call Scrooge.

Donald didn’t leave the house.

Instead he sent out job applications for positions in Cape Suzette. And dreamt of a life spent polishing the coins in the bin, of the scent of nutmeg tea and cheap soap.

 

When Magica attacked, it was so easy to slip back into who he used to be. It felt like a lifetime ago that he’d taken charge of a situation like this. And in a way, it was.

 It was also easy to reach into himself to find every adventuring know-how still there, words pouring out of him with the smoothness of expensive ice-cream.

The boys had proved that they could handle dangerous adventures just fine.

Seeing Mrs. B looking impressed was a balm on his tired soul. He knew that his day to day behavior in the bin hadn’t exactly matched Webby’s enthusiastic and well researched speeches about his past adventures. Well, they did now.

It was good to rise to the occasion, steering the boat towards their destination. It was good to feel capable again.

And so, he weaponized his own rage, heading off into danger for the sake of his family. Not that he’d ever stopped doing that, all those years. It just hadn’t looked like this.

It had looked like countless dead-end jobs and lifejackets and determination.

Donald swam away from his boat.

 

They won.

After the cleanup and the medical checks and some hot breakfast, Donald stepped back into the mansion. Outside the press were interviewing Uncle Scrooge, demanding information about Magica and her powers. Scrooge’s voice was reassuring and calm, the microphone ensuring that everyone heard what he had to say.

Donald strode deeper into the mansion, memories settling around him. In a few minutes, the boys would be running around with Webby, exited about being back. Scrooge would be fussing about the repair cost to fix his bin and Mrs. would be keeping an eye on everyone.

But for the moment, Donald could breathe easy for the first time in a long, long while.


End file.
